


Pretty flowers for pretty angels

by Sani86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale doesn't give a single fuck, Beez is badass, Crowley is so in love, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gabriel is a bit of a dick, Jewish Crowley, M/M, Smut, They are professors, thats it really, they fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29085051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: Doctor Azirpahale Fell takes a job at Tadfield University, looking for the recognition he deserves. Instead, he finds a sexy-as-sin botanist who yells at plants and grows the prettiest flowers.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 85
Kudos: 129
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UlsPi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for my darling UlsPi! They are a legend who deserves all the love - go check out their fabulous writing if you haven't yet!
> 
> This story is 100% fluff with a hint of smut later on. No angst here. Because who needs angst on their birthday, right?!
> 
> Tadfield University is obviously a fictional place, but I based it on the University of Pretoria, where I studied. Which is in South Africa. So if the things I describe are not like it really is in British universities… well, we’ll just agree to overlook that, hmm?
> 
> ———

Meet Doctor Aziraphale Fell - not Professor yet, alas, despite his fifty years of age; despite spending fully half his life working in academia at this point. It was a travesty, that he should go unrecognised for so long. But perhaps this would be his chance. Perhaps Tadfield University would give him what Eden College never had: recognition for his own brand of brilliance. 

Doctor Fell was exploring the campus of his new academic home. And what a campus it was! Almost sixty acres of it, dotted with more buildings than he could be bothered to count, ranging from centuries-old architectural masterpieces to postmodernist abominations that he’d rather not look at. Doctor Fell was a man of refined, if somewhat antiquarian, tastes, and preferred his arts to be well aged. Architecture, literature, music - it had all been so much better before the Great War. 

Today, however, his focus was not on the buildings; instead, he was heading for the botanical gardens. Yes, there were actual on-campus botanical gardens! His new boss, Professor Gabriel, had suggested that he go have a look, hinting none too subtly that getting some exercise couldn’t hurt. Aziraphale had been offended at the insinuation, but the prospect of spending his lunch hour out in nature was appealing enough to coax him out. 

The gardens, when he eventually found them, did not disappoint; they were lush and green and filled with a riot of colours from a myriad of flowering plants. He wandered aimlessly along the pathways, looking for a spot to sit and enjoy his sandwiches, but in no particular hurry to end his walk. He was enjoying the cool shade of the trees, the smell of leaf mulch and wet earth, the soft sounds of birdsong and… swearing? That wasn’t right, surely?

He followed the sound, listening with growing horror to the one-sided diatribe.

“This is completely unacceptable,” the voice was saying. “ I will not tolerate this sort of slacking on my watch!”

Aziraphale was scandalised by the sheer venom in the man’s voice. Surely no lecturer should be speaking to their students that way? 

“I don’t want excuses, I want results!” the mysterious voice went on. “If you can’t measure up, you’ll go the same way as your useless little friend.”

Aziraphale hurried his steps, determined to intervene on the poor victim’s behalf. He should report this unmannered person to their head of department!

“So get your shit together, or you’re out of here, understand?” The voice was close now, and Aziraphale was getting angrier with every step.

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale snapped as he rounded a particularly large shrub. “What do you think you’re -oh…?”

Azirahale’s mind temporarily went offline as expectation and reality met with a clash. Because before him was a man dressed like a wannabe rockstar, sunglasses and all, holding a harmless-looking green plant mister and, apparently, threatening a rather large fern.

“Um. Hi,” the other man said, absentmindedly waving the plant mister.

“Were you just… yelling at that plant?” Aziraphale asked, feeling like an idiot even as he said it, because really, what kind of madness was he accusing this stranger of? Then again, it was difficult to imagine what else had been going on, given that there was no-one else in sight.

“I’m afraid I was,” the man admitted. “Makes them grow better. If they know what’s good for them.” This last bit was hissed at the fern.

“Well. That’s certainly… unique,” Aziraphale said carefully, not wanting to offend. “Although, if it’s responsible for all this,” he waved a hand at the verdant plant life surrounding them, “I don’t suppose I can fault your technique.”

The man grinned at him.

“Exactly. Instill the fear of Crowley in them, and they won’t dare to wilt.”

“The fear of what?”

“Crowley,” the man repeated. “That’s me. I lecture botany. And you are?”

“Aziraphale Fell, but please do call me Aziraphale. I’m with the theology department.”

“Aziraphale, huh?” Crowley (Doctor Crowley? Professor Crowley? And was that a first name or a last name?) said. “Unusual name, can’t say I’ve heard it before.”

“Yes, goodness knows what my parents were thinking,” Aziraphale said. “Mother always claimed I was named after an angel, although I have yet to find an angel that goes by my name, and I think I’ve read every ancient Hebrew text on the planet.”

“You have?” Crowley said, eyebrows climbing over his sunglasses in surprise.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose I didn’t mention, I teach classical languages to theology students,” Azirpahale explained. “Hebrew and Greek, mostly, and Latin, of course; and I know a fair bit of Aramaic too.”

“Wow. You’re not Jewish, are you?” Crowley asked.

“Afraid not, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, “Unless you believe the church’s line that the followers of Christ are the ‘New Israel’, which I think is presumptuous and frankly downright rude.”

“Fuck,” Crowley’s mouth was hanging open, a bit. “I think I’m in love.”

Aziraphale laughed, a bit nervously.

“I just mean… Look, I _am_ Jewish, as it happens,” he explained. “And I’m just… I’ve never heard a Christian say something like that before. You are a Christian? Are you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Aziraphale said carefully. “Although I think my doctrine, on the whole, puts me in a denomination of one.”

“I’m sure that goes over well with the lot at Theology,” Crowley remarked drily.

“That remains to be seen,” Aziraphale said. It hadn’t really come up, and he hoped it wouldn’t any time soon. He was quite satisfied with his own beliefs, but it got a bit messy when he had to defend them to others of a more conservative mindset.

“Well, then,” Crowley said with a grin, sticking out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aziraphale marginally-a-Christian-of-sorts Fell. I think we’ll be great friends.”

“Likewise, Crowley-who-yells-at-plants. And I’m sure we will be,” Aziraphale said, shaking the proffered hand. “Now, perhaps you could point me to the best spot in your gardens to enjoy a quiet lunch?”

“Oh, yes, I know just the place,” Crowley said. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He set off, all long legs and haphazard angles, swaying like a willow tree in a gentle breeze. Aziraphale had to hurry to keep up.

“So, an angel, huh?” Crowley asked as they walked.

“Supposedly,” Aziraphale said, “Although I’ve often wondered if my father had been at the bottle when he was filling out the birth registration, because really? Where did he even get that? The closest angel name I could find in Judeo-Christian mythology is Raphael, which is honestly not very close at all. Of course, there’s also Azrael. My best working theory at the moment is that my name is some strange combination of the two.” 

“Angel of healing and angel of death in one?” Crowley said contemplatively. “Seems a little contradictory, if you ask me. Or maybe your name is just some weird anglicised version of Israfel? You know, the Islamic one.”

Aziraphale was impressed. He’d never found someone who knew quite so much about quite such an obscure topic. He suddenly realised that, in stumbling upon Crowley, he may just have discovered an excellent potential friend.

Their talk drifted off into all kinds of interesting topics as they walked, and eventually settled on a bench next to the stream to eat; Crowley seemed disinclined to leave, and Aziraphale was only too happy for the company, his plans for a quiet lunch be damned. He hadn’t had such an enjoyable conversation in years.

\---

Crowley was walking on air when he got back to the botany building after his impromptu lunch. More than one colleague gave him a slightly puzzled smile as he passed, which he felt mildly offended by until he caught sight of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Yep, that dopey smile was definitely not part of his normal range of expressions.

Then again, it’s not every day that he got to have lunch with an angel.

“The fuck is wrong with your face?” Beez asked when they met for their habitual 3pm smoke break. He’d befriended the rather grouchy geneticist years ago, simply because their neighbouring buildings shared a smoking area, and there’s only so many times you can share a ciggie without beginning to chat.

“‘s called a smile, Beez,” he said. “You know? Outward display of positive emotions? You should try it sometime.”

Beez snorted around a mouthful of cigarette butt. “Not gonna happen.” 

Crowley couldn’t help but agree. Beez was a lot of things - brilliant, feisty, hilarious in a wry, deadpan sort of way, but they’d never been cheerful.The closest they’d ever been known to get to a smile was an evil smirk.

They took a long drag, blowing the smoke out through their nose. “So, what’s got you all chirpy? Some new rare plant of yours finally flowering?”

“Better,” Crowley smiled. “I think I’m in love.”

Beez quirked a sceptical eyebrow. “You? In love? Pull the other one, mate.”

“I’m serious!” Crowley said. “I’m all… tingly, and happy, and I can’t stop thinking about him. You should see his smile, Beez; it’s like sunshine.”

“Riiight. And who is this mysterious prince charming?” Beez enquired.

“Aziraphale Fell. New lecturer at Theology.”

Beez choked on their smoke.

“Theology?” they sputtered. “Are you fucking insane, Crowley? That bunch of bible-bashing do-gooders? They probably burn queer Jews like us at the stake in their tea breaks.”

“Oh, relax,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale’s not like that.”

“Sure,” Beez said. “Because the Theology department is just stuffed with lovely gay men looking for a husband.”

“Beez, if that man is even a little bit straight, I’ll eat my shoes,” Crowley said. “You should see him. He’s just so… I can’t describe it. But I want to get to know him.”

“Know him, or, you know, _know_ him? _Biblically_?” Beez waggled their eyebrows comically.

“Shut up.” Crowley blushed furiously. It’s not that Beez was wrong, per se, but he was _not_ having this conversation with them.

Beez stubbed out their cigarette and turned to Crowley, suddenly serious. They grabbed him by both biceps (being rather too short to comfortably reach his shoulders) and looked him in the eye.

“Listen, Crowley. I can see you’re excited about this and all, but… be careful, okay? I don’t want to have to deal with your broken-hearted ass.”

For all their gruffness, Crowley could see the genuine affection and concern behind Beez’s words.

“I will, Beez. Thanks. And I’ll be sure to make my broken-hearted ass someone else’s problem, if need be.”

“Good,” Beez said, mollified. “Now, tell me more about this guy. In case I need to hunt him down some day.”

\---

Aziraphale was in a similarly cheerful mood when he got back to the department, a state of affairs that was only slightly spoiled by running into his new boss in the corridor.

“Aziraphale! Finally back from lunch, I see,” Gabriel said, with that weird smile of his that showed a lot of perfectly straight, white teeth but somehow didn’t reach his eyes. Gabriel was always like that, looking like he just stepped out of an advert from the pages of a more exclusive kind of men’s magazine. It was extremely intimidating and a little creepy.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, slightly flustered. “I took your advice, actually, and went for a stroll around the gardens.”

“Excellent!” Gabriel enthused. “Nothing like a bit of exercise to get the blood flowing, eh?”

“Um, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said. “I must say, the gardens are lovely. I wouldn’t have imagined such a thing could exist on a university campus. I met one of the botany chaps too, lovely fellow.”

“Oh? And who would that be?” Gabriel asked, with nonchalance that seemed a little forced.

“He’s called Crowley, although I’m still not quite sure if that’s a first name or a last name,” Aziraphale explained. “Perhaps you know him? Tall, skinny, red hair, yells at the plants?

Gabriel’s expression hardened a shade. “Oh yes, I know him. If you take my advice, Aziraphale, you’ll stay well away from Anthony Crowley. That man is nothing but trouble.”

Before Aziraphale could come up with a response to that, Gabriel’s smile snapped back into place, like someone had flipped a switch. It was unnerving.

“Anyway, back to work,” he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, you know.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “I'll just… pop along, then. Cheerio.” He turned and walked back to his office, his happy mood from lunch ever so slightly spoiled. A cup of tea, that’s what he needed. And perhaps looking Crowley up on the university’s intranet.

\---

===INBOX===============

To: az.fell@tadfield.uni

From: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

Subject: hi

\----------------

Hi Aziraphale

I hope you don’t mind that I looked up your email address on the uni server.

I enjoyed having lunch with you earlier. Hope we can do it again. Maybe I can give you the proper tour of the gardens. 

Crowley.

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

From: az.fell@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: hi

\----------------

Dear Crowley.

What an unexpected pleasure it was to receive your email. 

I must agree with your sentiment about lunch. I would very much enjoy seeing the rest of the gardens, especially with a knowledgeable guide such as yourself. I am afraid that my knowledge of botany extends only to tracing the etymology of the plants’ taxonomic names. 

Sincere regards,

Aziraphale

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: az.fell@tadfield.uni

From: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: hi

\----------------

Tomorrow at noon?

C

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

From: az.fell@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: hi

\----------------

Dear Crowley.

Tomorrow at noon sounds splendid; I have made a note in my diary. Where shall we meet?

Aziraphale

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: az.fell@tadfield.uni

From: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: hi

\----------------

Perfect! Meet me at the main entrance to the botany building (it’s the brick one next to the natsci parking lot)

C

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

From: az.fell@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: hi

\----------------

Dear Crowley.

Noted.

I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, then.

Aziraphale

=======================

And in two offices, one in the botany building and one in theology, two men were staring at their computers with matching grins, sharing a single thought:

_It’s a date!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so busy working on my Wolfstar angstfest that I forgot I have some more of this one to post, whoopsie 😬
> 
> Anyway, have some Crowley being adorable.

Walking around the gardens with Crowley turned out to be educational and entertaining in equal measure. He had an anecdote or an opinion or, if all else failed, an interesting fact to share about just about every tree or shrub. The occasional muttered threat to a plant that wasn’t up to scratch was just endearing.

“You can use Lamb’s lettuce as toilet paper, did you know that?” he informed Aziraphale, caressing the silky leaves between his fingers.

“I hate this bloody bush. The birds eat the berries and then shit purple diarrhoea all over my car, the little bastards,” he ranted at a Viburnum covered in dark violet berries.

“Smell this?” he asked, shoving a flowering Jasmine vine at Aziraphale. “This is the smell of springtime.”

“I was here when we planted this,” Crowley said, pointing out a towering two-story-high carob tree. 

“You must have been an infant, then,” Aziraphale observed, taking in the size of the tree. “This monster looks twice your age.”

“Nah, they’re fast growers. This one’s, hmm, maybe twelve years old? So really, I’m almost three times its age.”

“Oh?” And how old are you?” Aziraphale thought he pulled off the casual tone of voice pretty well, given how intensely interested he was in the answer.

“Thirty five,” Crowley answered easily.

Aziraphale felt himself deflate. Fifteen years younger! Well, he could put that particular little fantasy to rest.

They walked on, and Crowley pointed out a tree bearing what appeared to be tiny, immature apples.

“ _ Malus sieversii, _ ” Crowley said. “The wild ancestor of most of our domesticated apples. Native to central Asia, too. If there really was an apple tree in the garden of Eden, this was it.”

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale said. “Although, I’ve always wondered about the whole apple thing. I mean, it’s not the most tempting fruit, is it? Not like, say, a nice ripe fig.”

“Or a perfect, juicy peach,” Crowley said, and then blushed to the tips of his ears. Aziraphale had no idea why. But his imagination supplied him with the image of Crowley biting into a plush, perfectly ripe peach, juices dripping down his chin… and suddenly he was sporting a matching blush. Infernal temptation, indeed.

“If you like pretty flowers, I should show you the orchid greenhouse,” Crowley said, after Aziraphale stopped to admire a flowering Hoya. He looked a little offended when Aziraphale snorted a laugh.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just the name - orchid - it’s Greek for-”

“Testicles, right,” Crowley grinned. “So, what do you say, angel? Wanna go look at some bollocks? Are angels allowed to do that?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “This angel certainly is. Lead on, my dear.”

They never did make it to the greenhouse, because Crowley checked his watch, swore in at least two languages, and explained that he was late for his final year phytopathology class before rushing off. 

Aziraphale didn’t have anything pressing to attend to himself, so he wandered back to the Theology buildings at his leisure. 

Later that afternoon, his email pinged.

===INBOX===============

To: az.fell@tadfield.uni

From: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

Subject: Orchids?

\----------------

Hey angel! Sorry that I had to run. Wanna come see the orchids tomorrow?

C

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

From: az.fell@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: Orchids?

\----------------

Dear Crowley.

Unfortunately I have a meeting with Gabriel tomorrow, but I’m free on Friday. Shall I meet you at the same place, same time?

Aziraphale

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: az.fell@tadfield.uni

From: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

Subject: Orchids?

\----------------

Perfect! See you Friday.

C

=======================

\---

Two days seemed entirely too long to Crowley. By the time Friday lunchtime rolled around, he was almost vibrating out of his skin with nervous excitement.

Which was absurd. As Beez had pointed out, he barely knew Aziraphale. He had no idea whether the man was single, or whether he could be interested in someone like Crowley. But alas, the heart didn’t listen to reason, and Crowley’s heart was entirely lost on one beautiful, soft angel.

Speaking of which, there he was!

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley greeted with a smile.

“Hello, Crowley,” the angel said, his smile lighting up the world. “Are you well?”

“Better now that you’re here,” Crowley said without thinking, and the angel blushed a lovely shade of pink.

“Charmer,” he said, smiling demurely. “Come on then, where are these orchids you promised to show me?”

Ah, yes. Plants. He could do plants. Could even sound clever while doing it.

He spent a happy half-hour showing Aziraphale all his favourite blooms, including his prized collection of rare  _ Paphiopedilum _ specimens. They had some fun finding familiar figures in the shapes of the petals - birds and animals and insects, and, in the case of his  _ Orchis italica _ , little naked men. Crowley burst out laughing at Aziraphale’s wry “Well, at least these balls have some willies to go with them.” It seemed Aziraphale had a perfectly naughty sense of humour under that angelic façade.

“Which one’s your favourite?” Aziraphale asked eventually, and really, what kind of a question was that? It was like asking a parent to pick their favourite child. And yet, Crowley answered without a moment’s hesitation, pointing out a rather pedestrian  _ Habenaria grandifloriformis _ .

“‘s called an angel orchid,” he explained with a shrug.

Azirapahle made a soft, happy little  _ oh _ sound. On an impulse, Crowley leaned forward, snapping off one of the perfect white flowers.

“Here, a pretty angel for a pretty angel.” he beckoned Aziraphale closer, and carefully poked the stem through the buttonhole of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. The inherent bad judgement of this move only dawned on him when the backs of his fingers brushed against Aziraphale’s padded chest, making him go weak in the knees. He was so soft, so warm; Crowley wanted to curl up against him and sleep for a hundred years.

“Fuck, sorry,” he managed. “Forgetting my boundaries, I am.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, smiling a pleased little smile. “I’m flattered. It’s not every day I get a flower from such a dashing young man.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Crowley said, completely honestly. “Pretty angels should get pretty flowers every single day.”

\---

The next morning when Aziraphale got to his office, there was a single white peony sitting on top of his mail in his pigeonhole. No note, but surely there was only one person who would leave him a flower? He couldn’t help but smile as he picked it up and twirled the stem between his fingers. Maybe there had been more to Crowley’s remarks about pretty flowers than just mindless flirting. Maybe.

The moment he got to his office, after the non-negotiable ritual of brewing his first cup of tea for the morning, he sent an email.

===INBOX===============

To: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

From: az.fell@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: Lunch 

\----------------

Dear Crowley.

I seem to have forgotten my lunchbox at home. Do you have any suggestions for a good place to get a bite to eat on or near campus?

Kind regards,

Aziraphale

PS: The flower is lovely :)

=======================

It wasn’t entirely truthful, of course - Aziraphale would never be so careless about his meals - but he hoped that Crowley would understand the invitation that he wasn’t quite brave enough to put into words.

He had to leave to teach his morning classes - Introductory Greek for the first years, followed by second-year Hebrew - before Crowley replied. This gave him far too much time to work himself into a proper tizzy, worrying that perhaps he’d misread something or overstepped some undeclared boundary. But to his relief, an answer was waiting in his inbox when he got back.

===INBOX===============

To: az.fell@tadfield.uni

From: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

Subject: Lunch

\----------------

There’s this lovely little cafe just off campus; I can go show you if you like? What time would suit you?

C

PS - not as lovely as you ;)

=======================

Aziraphale felt his heart soar. He hadn’t been wrong after all!

===INBOX===============

To: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

From: az.fell@tadfield.uni

Subject: RE: Lunch 

\----------------

Dear Crowley.

I’m free between 12:00 and 13:30 today, so anywhere in that time frame would work for me.

Aziraphale

PS: Flatterer

=======================

===INBOX===============

To: az.fell@tadfield.uni

From: aj.crowley@tadfield.uni

Subject: Lunch

\----------------

Great, I’ll be at yours at 12:00 then

C

PS - it’s not flattery if it’s true ;)

=======================

Aziraphale granted himself a full minute to sit and smile at his computer like a fool before he forced himself to focus and get some work done.

\---

Crowley was dying. He was certain of it. That, or he was stuck in some strange fever dream where watching a middle-aged man eat a  _ croque monsieur _ was suddenly the sum of all his erotic fantasies.

He watched transfixed as Aziraphale cut another dainty bite from his sandwich and carefully brought it to his mouth. A little dollop of béchamel sauce stayed behind on his upper lip, and yes, there it was, just the tiniest tip of a pink tongue darting out to lick it away before he delicately patted his mouth with a serviette.

And the  _ sounds  _ he made. Dear Lord, such sounds! If a simple sandwich could pull such a heartfelt moan of pleasure from Aziraphale, what on earth would he sound like in bed? Nope, best not to think about that, not out here in public wearing trousers that suddenly seemed far too tight.

Aziraphale must have noticed him nearly drooling, and assumed it was over the sandwich. “Would you like a bite?” he asked innocently.

_ Of you, yes. _ “Nope. Ham. And cheese.”

“Oh, of course, how insensitive of me!” Aziraphale looked quite mortified, and that simply wouldn’t do.

“No problem, Angel,” he reassured. “Don’t expect you to keep kosher just because I do.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you.”

“Nope, nuh uh! Not kind! Never! You’ll ruin my reputation, you know.” Besides, Crowley wasn’t being all noble and self-sacrificing here; he was enjoying watching Aziraphale eat that sandwich far too much.

“Well, it will just have to be our little secret, then,” Aziraphale smiled coyly, and gave him a wink. Crowley nearly died on the spot.

\---

Crowley walked Aziraphale back to his office after lunch, much to Aziraphale’s delight. He felt rather like he was walking on air, with such a handsome man by his side.

Pity, then, that they ran into Gabriel just outside the theology building.

“Crowley.” Gabriel’s greeting was curt.

“Gabriel.”

Aziraphale looked between them. Clearly, there was some sort of bad blood between them, if the way they were glaring was any indication.

“I’ll be off then, An- Aziraphale,” Crowley said. Aziraphale couldn’t help noticing the way his mouth softened into a smile as he turned his attention from Gabriel to himself.

“All right, then,” Aziraphale smiled back. “Thank you for lunch. We’ll speak tomorrow?”

“Count on it.” Crowley gave him a smile and a sort of wave-salute, then sauntered away, all long legs and sinful hips. Aziraphale tried not to stare. It wasn’t a resounding success.

“You’re still hanging out with  _ him _ , then,” Gabriel said, disapproval written in every line of his face.

“Not that it’s any concern of yours,” Aziraphale said, “-but yes, I am. Crowley is my friend.”

“But it does concern me.” Gabriel objected. “You are a part of this faculty, and as such, your actions reflect on us and on our message, on the work that we do.”

“Dear Lord, you make me sound like a priest that’s violated his vows!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Which, may I remind you, I am not. I am a lecturer at a secular university, which happens to have employed me in the theology department, and my personal life simply does not figure into that. So if we’re quite done?”

“But, Aziraphale,” Gabriel insisted. “You must remember, it’s like you said, we are the department of  _ Theology _ . We study and teach the ways of God. Just think how it looks that one of our lecturers is spending his time with a  _ homosexual. _ ” Gabriel whispered the word, as if it were something dirty and sinful. Aziraphale nearly burst out laughing.

“Gabriel, dear fellow,” he said, trying not to laugh, “In case you haven't noticed, I’m something of a flaming homosexual myself. If that’s a problem, I’m sure the university’s HR department would like to hear about it. We do have an anti-discrimination policy, you know…”

Gabriel looked dumbstruck. Really, the man was painfully oblivious; Aziraphale made no attempts to hise his sexualtiy, and he was pretty sure anyone who cared to look could spot what he was. For Gabriel to miss it suggested a particularly pigheaded sort of willful ignorance.

“You’re… gay?” he clarified.

“Extremely.”

“And… not indulging in any relationships, I trust?”

“That’s none of your business!” Aziraphale huffed. He was single, as it happened, but not out of principle, merely due to a lack of suitable prospects. Although...

“But. But. You’re a Christian? How can you do that?” 

Aziraphale felt a small twinge of pity for Gabriel, who was now looking about as confused as a puppy would be when asked to derive and then solve Maxwell’s equations. Aziraphale suddenly saw himself, decades ago: a closeted teenage boy confused about his sexuality and his faith and how those two things could possibly co-exist.

“Gabriel, I have to go, I’m late for a meeting.” He wasn’t, but he also wasn’t having this conversation right now, standing on the steps in front of the Theology building.

“Okay. But we’re not done talking about this.”

Aziraphale fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Goodbye, Gabriel.”

Back in his office, he sent a quick email:

===INBOX===============

To: gabriel@tadfield.uni

From: az.fell@tadfield.uni

Subject: Thesis 

\----------------

Dear Gabriel.

Regarding our conversation this afternoon: Please find attached my thesis on the translation of scriptures and the role of cultural influences as opposed to pure linguistics. You may find it enlightening. 

I will be prepared to continue our conversation once you have read this, but not before.

Regards,

Aziraphale

=======================

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he hit send. It had taken him a long, long time to learn to stick up for himself, but boy, did it feel good.

He would have to tell Crowley about it.

Crowley. Dear, sweet Crowley, who gave him flowers and took him to lunch and walked around looking far too delicious for anyone’s good. Crowley, who called him  _ Angel _ .

Suddenly, Aziraphale was smiling for a different reason altogether.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is hopelessly in love, Azirpahale has a (brief) moment of self doubt, and Beez is the biggest badass on campus.
> 
> Oh and just a note: if you think the flowers I pick for this story have any hidden meanings... well, all I can say is good luck with that. I just pick ones I like the look of. So if I've inadvertently made Crowley send Azirpahale a death threat or something, please know that was not my intention. They're just pretty, that's literally it.

The next morning, there was a white daisy in Aziraphale’s pigeonhole.

The morning after that, a small bunch of sweet alyssum, tied with a piece of black silk ribbon.

And so it went on, a flower every morning: gardenia, rosebuds, petunias, and a whole host Aziraphale didn’t know the names of - each one different, and every single one white.

He was too afraid to ask what it all meant. He hoped in his heart of hearts that this was Crowley’s way of expressing interest, of - dare he think it? - courting him. But he was afraid to get his hopes up. After all, Crowley was young and sexy and hip (yes, that was a word that still existed in Aziraphale’s vocabulary), and Aziraphale was… well, none of that. He didn’t think he had much to offer to a walking fantasy like Crowley.

And yet, Crowley seemed just as eager for Aziraphale’s company as Aziraphale was for his. Hardly a day went by that they didn’t see each other: they had lunch together in the gardens or in one of the cafés on campus; they attended the music department’s lunchtime concerts every Tuesday; they had long, rambling conversations - often bleeding over into email and text messages - about a truly bizarre range of topics (ranging from the inherent artistic merit of The Sound of Music to the size of dolphin brains). It was almost like dating, but without the crucial element of romance, and restricted to working hours.

Until, one day, that changed.

“Go on a date with me,” Crowley blurted out, randomly, in the middle of a conversation about… what were they talking about again? Didn’t matter, Aziraphale couldn’t string two words together anymore.

“Wha-?” he managed, remarkably eloquently for a man with a PhD in languages.

“A date,” Crowley said again. “As in, uh, nice dinner, possible romantic overtones. You know. Date.”

“But… why?” Aziraphale asked, still rather at a loss.

“Because I’m an optimist.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“Nevermind,” Crowley started backpedaling. “Forget it, of course you’re not-”

“Yes!” Aziraphale cut him off, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary. 

It was Crowley’s turn to blink dumbly (it was hard to tell behind the sunglasses, but Aziraphale had gotten good at reading his eyebrows).

“I would love to come on a date with you, Crowley,” he clarified, and the smile that broke out over Crowley’s handsome face was like a sunrise. “I mean, I don’t understand why you would want to-” The sun clouded over.

“What… you… _What?_ ”

“I just mean,” Aziraphale said, uncomfortably, “You’re all… you’re young, and good looking, and charming - why on earth would you want to go out with me, of all people?”

“Because you’re gorgeous and clever and interesting, and I love spending time with you?” Crowley said-asked, in a tone of voice that suggested he thought Aziraphale was being utterly obtuse. “Seriously, what’s not to like?”

Aziraphale was sure he was blushing. He didn’t quite agree, but he wasn't about to argue his way out of getting exactly what he wanted. He would enjoy this while it lasted.

“All right then,” he said. “I would love to go on a date with you, Crowley. Of a romantic nature.”

“Brilliant!” Crowley said, and the sunrise smile was back. “When? How about dinner tonight? Or is that too soon?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Dinner tonight sounds lovely.”

“Brilliant! I’ll pick you up at seven.”

\---

Crowley pulled up outside Aziraphale’s flat at five to. He nervously checked his hair in the rear view mirror, adjusted his sunglasses, wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his trousers. Fuck, this was actually happening! Aziraphale, angel of his heart, had agreed to a date with explicitly stated romantic intentions. If he played his cards right, he might even get a kiss at the end of the night, and just the thought of that was enough to make Crowley’s stomach feel as if one of Beez’s fruit fly experiments had taken up residence there. In a pleasant sort of way.

After one last glance at his reflection, he grabbed the flowers he’d brought for Aziraphale (red tulips, this time, harvested from a few forced bulbs that he’d been threatening into perfection for weeks now) and bravely made his way to the door. He rang the bell and shifted nervously from foot to foot as he waited. Why the hell was he so nervous? It was just Aziraphale, they saw each other every day! But of course, that was exactly the problem: it was Aziraphale. It was Aziraphale, and Crowley was hopelessly, head-over-heels besotted.

“Hello, Crowley - ooh, aren’t those lovely!” Aziraphale smiled when he caught sight of the tulips. Crowley smiled because his entire field of vision was just full of Aziraphale, and what a treat that was. Honestly, the flowers paled in comparison.

“For you, pretty angel,” Crowley said when he finally remembered how his vocal chords worked.

“Moving on to red now, hm? How daring.” Aziraphale teased.

“Red’s more romantic,” Crowley said before he could think, and fuck, he really had to work on his verbal filters. But Aziraphale seemed pleased, smiling that shy little twinkly-eyed smile, so Crowley chalked it up as a win.

They ended up going to a lovely little Italian bistro, the really kitschy kind with red checkered tablecloths and candles in chianti bottles. The food, however, was superb, and so was the wine, and the conversation between them flowed as easily as it always did.

“Dessert?” Crowley asked, once they’d decimated a loaf of garlic bread and two heaping plates of pasta.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Aziraphale demurred, but Crowley could see the interest in his eyes. He’d long ago cottoned on to Aziraphale’s sweet tooth.

“Angel, unless you have some sort of medical condition that means dessert will put you in mortal danger, you absolutely should.”

“Well, since you put it that way…”

So Aziraphale ordered his dessert, and Crowley sipped his espresso, and they talked and laughed until Crowley thought he could die a happy man just from watching Aziraphale lick tiramisu from a spoon.

-

“Here we are, safe and sound,” Crowey said, as he delivered Aziraphale to his front door.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he said. “I had a very good time tonight.”

“Yeah?” Crowley smiled. “That’s good. Great. We should do it again.”

“I would be amenable to that,” Aziraphale said. “Although… there is one thing I might change…”

“Oh?” Crowley felt himself deflate a bit at the thought that there was something about the night his angel didn’t like.

“Yes. You see, this was a date, correct?”

Crowley nodded.

“Of a romantic nature?” 

Crowley nodded again.

“Well, given those parameters, I believe, if the evening were a success, it would culminate in a kiss.”

Crowley beamed. “In that case, angel, I absolutely want to kiss you.”

“Go ahead, then,” Aziraphale smiled at him, and oh, there go those pesky fruit flies again!

He stepped closer to Aziraphale, ducked his head down just a bit to make up for their height difference. Aziraphale, for his part, tilted his head up a bit, and the sight of him smiling up at Crowley was more beautiful than any rare flower.

He brought one hand up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek - so soft! - and slowly, slowly drew near. Time became liquid, drawing out into a subjective infinity in a way that would make Zeno grab his notebook, as Aziraphale’s delectable mouth came closer, closer, closer… and oh, there it was! The paradox resolved itself with the gentle press of lips against lips, and the complete rearrangement of Crowley’s internal universe.

\---

Aziraphale was walking on air all through the rest of that night and the next morning. Going on a date with Crowley - _kissing_ Crowley - had filled his brain with so much serotonin that if someone figured out a way to bottle him they could probably sell it as a cure for depression. 

A red Gerbera daisy waiting in his pigeonhole only served to bolster his mood. He smiled as he picked it up, walked to his office, and put it in the water glass on his desk that held all the surviving white flowers from the previous weeks. The bright scarlet stood out among the more demure white blooms, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile every time it caught his eye. Invariably, it would make him think of Crowley’s statement that red is more romantic, which would remind him of the kiss, which would divert his train of thought head straight onto the track to daydream land, reliving the moment over and over again in his memory…

It was in the middle of one such a daydream, staring out the window at a couple of sparrows bobbing around on the windowsill, that he was interrupted by someone closing the door of his office rather loudly. He turned to find a very small, very angry looking person looming over his desk. It was difficult to loom when you were barely taller than a preadolescent girl, but somehow this person managed it. They could probably out-loom a basketball champion, even while craning their neck up. It was all in the glare.

“Can I help you?” Aziraphale asked, rather timidly. Lord, he hoped this wasn’t one of his new postgrads. Imagine correcting their work.

“What are your intentions with Crowley?” the intruder snapped.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asked, completely thrown by the question. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Beez,” the person snapped, and Aziraphale interrupted before they could get any further

“Wait, _you’re_ Beez? Crowley’s crazy geneticist friend?” Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, I’m so glad you decided to drop by! I’ve been wanting to meet you!” Aziraphale stepped around the table and shook Beez’s hand enthusiastically.

“Seriously?” Beez looked rather nonplussed. 

“Oh, yes, he’s told me so much about you! Please, sit.” Aziraphale gestured to the empty chair, and Beez plopped down. They ended up half-lying down in a ridiculous attempt to keep their feet on the floor and their shoulders against the backrest at the same time. 

“So, what can I do for you?” Aziraphale said brightly.

“Like I said. What are your intentions with Crowley?” Beez demanded again.

“Um. I’m not sure that’s really-”

“Look,” Beez interrupted. “Crowley is my best friend, okay. He’s like a brother to me, and you’d better believe I’m the fierce, overprotective type of older sibling. He’s been mooning over you for weeks, and now you went on a date and he’s just reached a whole new level of sappy ridiculousness. He’s got a soft little heart, for all the wannabe badass show he puts on, and I won’t let anyone trample on him.”

“Oh, dear me, no,” Aziraphale chimed in. “I assure you, I would never hurt him.” An unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Why, did Crowley say something? Did I maybe-”

This time Beez interrupted. “No, no. Nothing like that. This is just… precautionary. Reconnaissance, if you will.”

“Well, that’s very… um, sweet, I suppose. And a little creepy.” 

Beez gave an evil grin at the ‘creepy’. They really were a strange little person.

“But I assure you,” Aziraphale continued, “I have no ill intentions toward him. I’m pretty certain if anyone will get his heart broken here, it will be me.”

Beez gave him a calculating look. “Nah,” they finally said. “He’s gone on you. Totally lost it. So be careful with him, okay? Treat him badly, and you’ll answer to me.” They treated Aziraphale to another glare as they pushed up off the chair. Aziraphale chuckled, which rather spoiled the effect.

“I’ll be going, then,” they said. “Oh, and as far as Crowley knows, this conversation didn’t happen.”

“Oh, I can’t promise that, my dear,” Aziraphale said, still smiling. “This whole encounter has just been too amusing not to share.”

Beez rolled their eyes and turned on their heel, but just as they walked through the door, they met a man-mountain coming the other way.

“Watch where you’re going!” they spat, not looking up.

“What are _you_ doing here?” came a voice from somewhere far above Beez’s head. But it wasn’t the voice of Gd, oh no, not by a long shot.

Beez looked up slowly, for maximum effect, their best crazy-person mask in place. “Why, Professor Gabriel,” they intoned. “What an unexpected pleasure.” Their tone of voice made it clear that it was anything but.

“You’re in my building, you know,” Gabriel replied mildly. “Also, there’s a fly in your hair.”

Beez raised a hand to grab the offending insect between their thumb and forefinger, and inspected it critically. “Ah, yes. _Drosophila melanogaster_ , vestigial wing phenotype. Must’ve crawled up there when I was checking on them this morning. Poor thing can’t even fly away. And I had such high hopes for this batch.” They sighed in a disappointed way… and then stuck the fly in their mouth before pushing past Gabriel and out into the corridor with one final glower.

Once the door closed behind them, they dug out a handkerchief and spat out the (slightly damp, but still living) fruit fly. Fuck, that was _disgusting_. But the look on Gabriel’s face had been well worth it. It was almost enough to make Beez chuckle in amusement as they made their way back to the labs.

And back in the office, Aziraphale was fighting just as hard to keep from laughing out loud. As it was, he was hiding a smile behind his hand. Heck, if Beez could shut his boss up that effectively, he might have to invite them over more often.

Aziraphale had a feeling they would become great friends in time.

\---

“So, I met Beez this morning,” Aziraphale mentioned while they were eating lunch, sitting side-by-side on one of the benches in the garden.

“Oh, no,” Crowley groaned. “What did they do?”

“Warned me not to hurt you,” Aziraphale said. “Apparently you are a delicate flower that must be handled with utmost care, or they will gut me and display my head on a spike as a warning to others.”

“Yup,” Crowley said, “That sounds like Beez.”

“They also ate a fly.”

“They _what_?!” Crowley laughed.

“Yes, an actual fly. Popped it right into their mouth. I think they were trying to unnerve Gabriel,” Aziraphale elaborated. “It worked, too. I’ve never seen the poor man look so pale. Made me think I should have them over for tea more often. Maybe after the weekly staff meeting, when Gabriel’s prowling around the offices handing out work.”

Crowley chuckled. “You are such a bastard!”

“Oi,” Aziraphale said in mock offence. “I’m an angel, I can’t be a bastard. I’m a… a shining beacon of goodness, I am.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Crowley said with a lazy smile. “You’re the bastardiest angel I’ve ever met, and I love it.” He leaned over and kissed Aziraphale softly on the cheek, as if to prove his point. And really, how could Aziraphale argue with that.

“You are the only person in the world who would think that’s a compliment,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Well, you’ve met my best friend,” Crowley said. 

“True,” Aziraphale conceded. 

“And honestly? Too much sugar isn’t for me. I like a little spice.” Crowley winked (or at least, his eyebrow did).

“Well, I for one will always go for the sweeter option,” Aziraphale said. “So it seems we’re a good match.”

“Hey, I warned you about calling me - oh, you _bastard!_ ” Crowley laughed again when he saw Aziraphale’s teasing grin. Aziraphale giggled right back at him.

“Sorry, my dear,” he said smugly, “You just make it too easy. Now, what are your plans for this weekend?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ulspi, darling, I have *not* abandoned your story. But life is being rather... life, at the moment. Deadlines and whatnot.
> 
> But hopefully good things are worth waiting for?

Life. Was. Wonderful.

Not a sentence Crowley had ever imagined himself thinking, but there it was. Of course, he’d never imagined he would have the opportunity to fall in love with an almost literal angel - never mind that  _ the angel seemed to feel the same way _ . It boggled the mind, it truly did.

They had been an official item for almost a month now, and had gone on a number of real, proper dates. Aziraphale had taken him to see an RSC production of Hamlet (which,  _ uuurgh _ , so  _ gloomy! _ But Crowley had amused himself by watching Aziraphale silently mouth along to every word, and honestly, that alone was worth the price of admission). Crowley had retaliated by taking Aziraphale to see a ballet set entirely to the music of Queen, which caused a whole new range of amusing facial expressions. After that, Aziraphale insisted they go see a production of Mozart’s Requiem by the TU Symphony Orchestra and Choir so that Crowley could appreciate some  _ proper _ music. (Crowley had protested, but mostly just for the sake of appearances - he actually had a bit of a secret soft spot for the madman’s music. Especially after seeing Tom Hulce’s brilliantly offbeat portrayal. *Manic giggle*) And in-between there were casual lunches, walks through the gardens and enough kisses to necessitate carrying a tube of lip balm in his pocket at all times.

“You’ve gone completely mushy since you started dating that angel,” Beez complained, after a rant about their incompetent grad student was met with nothing but mild amusement.

“It’s wonderful, being in love,” Crowley said. “You should try it some time.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Beez said. “Can you imagine? Me? All gushing over some random person?” They pulled a disgusted face.

“No, I really can’t,” Crolwley agreed. “You’re more the type for whips and chains.”

“Ha bloody ha,” Beez said sardonically. “Besides, you’re not one to talk. That man might not literally have you on a leash, but I bet you’d sit up and beg for him.”

“You’re not wrong,” Crowley conceded with a shrug. “Speaking of, it’s time to pick up my angel and get outta here. Wanna walk with me?”

“Sure,” Beez shrugged and fell into step next to him. “Maybe I’ll get to have another go at that Gabriel arsehole.”

“That’s the spirit.” Crowley said with a fond roll of his eyes.

\---

Aziraphale was trying to work. Not very successfully, though - he had a date with Crowley after work, and his thoughts kept stubbornly wandering in that direction. 

He glanced at the time, sighed, and decided it was probably time to concede defeat. He wasn’t going to get anything more done today. So he shut down his computer for the evening, gathered up his papers, and prepared to leave.

He’d almost made it to freedom when Gabriel popped up, seemingly out of nowhere. And, oh dear Lord, he wasn’t alone; Doctor Sandalphon, the lecturer who taught the courses on dogmatics, doctrine and Christian ethics, was with him. Aziraphale didn't like Sandalphon much; the man always gave him a gentle attack of the creeps. It was something in his gold-toothed smile, something predatory, like the cold gaze of a shark surveying the reef for lunch.

Aziraphale considered backtracking into his office to hide until they’d passed, but unfortunately Gabriel had already spotted him.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel greeted him with his usual plastic joviality. “You remember Sandalphon?”

“Yes, indeed,” Aziraphale said, eyeing the open front doors longingly. “I read your latest paper on homosexuality within the Church. Very… strongly worded.” Which Aziraphale thought was a most artful way of saying ‘bigoted homophobic garbage’.

“Yes, well,” Sandalphon said, preening. “We can’t let our guard down against this insidious immorality invading the Body of Christ.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. But at the same time, some corner of his mind was amused to note that Gabriel also looked uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. Maybe the man had earned a thing or two about keeping his stupider opinions to himself.

“So, Aziraphale,” Gabriel interrupted, before Sandalphon could get into full rant-mode. “Exciting plans for the evening?”

Fuck it, Aziraphale decided. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes, in fact. I have a date with this incredibly attractive man from Botany. In fact,” he added, as he caught sight of a familiar flash of auburn and black, “there he is now.”

Their party turned around to see Crowley and Beez approaching. 

“Hiya, Angel,” Crowley said, sauntering up to him with an easy smile. 

“Hello, Darling,” Aziraphale - in a big ol’ fuck-you to Gabriel, and Sandalphon, and their whole messed-up worldview - greeted him with a kiss on the lips. “Hello, Beez. Nice to see you,” he added with a smile.

“Hey, Blondie,” Beez said. “And you, Arsehole.” They gave Gabriel a nod that was at least not openly hostile. Then they raised an eyebrow at Sandalphon, whose face had gone a rather interesting shade of puce. “Who’s this?”

“Gabriel, what is going on here?” Sandalphon demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re allowing this sort of perversion among your staff?!”

“Not a priest,” Aziraphale reminded them with a smile. 

“But you call yourself a Christian? Disgraceful!” Sandalphon was regarding Crowley and Aziraphale with unconcealed disgust.

“Sandalphon,” Gabriel said through gritted teeth, “Don’t go there. Just… don’t. Trust me. You won’t win.”

“Yeah, Sandal-dude,” Crowley chimed in. “You don’t want Aziraphale going all avenging angel on you.”

“Can’t you speak for yourself?” Sandalphon sneered at Aziraphale. “Do you need your boss and your rentboy to fight your battles?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He was  _ so  _ over this, but he was not about to back down before a little pizzle like Sandalphon.

“The God I serve does not condemn anyone for who they happen to love,” Aziraphale said coldly. “The bigots that claim to act as his mouthpiece in the name of the Church… well, they’re a different matter. But then, they used to support slavery too, and a frankly disgusting degree of misogyny. Not to mention the crusades, the Inquisition, the witch-burnings… need I go on?” Aziraphale gave Sandalphon a pointed look. “If you could pull your head out of your own arse for a minute, you might realise that doctrine often changes as our understanding grows. For my part, if I have to err, I’ll always choose to err on the side of love. You can take your hateful opinions elsewhere - I, for one, won’t entertain them for a second.”

“But you can’t just ignore scriptures when they don’t suit you!” Sandalphon argued. “What is written is written, infallible and immutable!”

“Wanna bet on that, Bible boy?” Beez chimed in. “Because your religion co-opted our god, and Jews have been arguing with Them for thousands of years.”

“Yeah,” Crowley added. “Who’s to say it’s not written down differently somewhere else? Somewhere you never thought to look?”

Aziraphale watched the exchange with amusement. It was a new experience, having friends who argued his case for him.

To everyone’s surprise, it was Gabriel who poured water on the flames. 

“Okay, wait,” he said, in what Azirahale thought of as his chairman-of-the-board voice (or chairman-of-the- _ bored _ , during those endless blasted staff meetings); “Let’s all just step back and take a deep breath. Sandalphon, if you’re really interested in learning and not just arguing, I have some reading matter for you.” Sandalphon huffed and turned on his heel, stomping off like a toddler who hadn’t gotten his way. 

Gabriel turned back to them. “Aziraphale, Crowley, you get out of here, go… do whatever it is you do. And Beez… I’ll, um, see you around?” To Aziraphale’s amusement, Gabriel was giving Beez a nervous smile, his demeanour somewhat reminiscent of a blushing schoolboy. Beez eyed him appraisingly.

“Yeah,” they said finally. “Yeah, maybe you will. I’m in my office at eight in the morning, and I take my coffee black and bitter.” With a nonchalant little wave at Crowley and Aziraphale, they turned and walked off.

Gabriel smiled - properly smiled, with his eyes - for the first time Aziraphale could remember. Now that was an interesting development.

“C’mon, Angel,” Crowley said, taking his arm. “I have something special planned for tonight.”

“I can’t wait,” Aziraphale smiled back up at him.

\---

Crowley did indeed have special plans. He’d thought about it, and thought about it again, and finally decided that he was ready to take his relationship with Aziraphale to the next step. Which was why he planned to make dinner at his flat. 

No, he wasn’t trying to get Aziraphale into bed. Okay, rephrase: he wouldn’t mind getting Aziraphale naked and sweaty - he would in fact like it very, very much - but that wasn’t the Big Thing here. The Big Thing™ was simply having Aziraphale over to his flat. His private sanctum, where only the most trusted friends may enter (read: only Beez, and only once, when he was so sick he couldn’t walk and needed someone to bring him medicine before he  _ died _ . No, he wasn’t being melodramatic. How dare you suggest such a thing. Of course you can get cholera in England.)

Anyway. It wasn’t as if Crowley hadn’t had lovers before. He’d even had a few relationships, of sorts. But nothing had lasted long enough or gotten serious enough that he would even consider inviting them over. There had been sex aplenty in the past, but never in  _ his  _ bed.

But Aziraphale… Aziraphale was different. Crowley wanted to share every single bit of himself with the man; all the strange and ugly and even boring bits that he didn’t show to anyone else. Maybe it was foolish, trusting someone so completely after such a short time, but Crowley could no more stop himself than the tides could stop following the moon.

“So, where are we going tonight, my dear?” Aziraphale asked as they pulled out into traffic. Crowley was proud of his progress - the first time got a lift in the Bentley, Aziraphale was so terrified he could hardly breathe, let alone carry on a conversation.

“I thought we could go over to mine,” Crowley said. “I’ll cook, we can maybe watch a movie…” Crowley considered making a joke about Netflix and chilling, but he was 90% sure Aziraphale had no idea what Netflix was, bless him.

“You can cook?” Aziraphale asked, surprised.

“I’m a single man living by myself, of course I can cook,” Crowley said. “Mom made sure of that, may her soul rest in peace. Just don’t ask me to bake a cake, that’s guaranteed to end in disaster.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m afraid my own culinary skills are somewhat lacking, single man or not. But I can bake a mean brownie.”

“Well, that settles it,” Crowley said. “You’re in charge of dessert.”

After a quick stop at the grocer’s to pick up a frankly obscene amount of dark chocolate for the brownies, they finally made it to Crowley’s flat. Crowley prepared a simple but remarkably flavourful stir-fry ( _ “the secret is in the ponzu sauce, Angel” _ ) to serve alongside their grilled salmon, while Aziraphale got the brownies ready. Crowley nearly expired at the sight of Aziraphale licking the batter from the spoon, but that was nothing new. He was averaging at least one Aziraphale-related near-death experience a day, quite often in the presence of food. 

As they finished their meal, the rich, seductive scent of baking chocolate slowly filled the flat.

“Hmm, that smells amazing,” Crowley said, sniffing appreciatively as Aziraphale took the pan out of the oven.

“Patience, dear,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t ask me how I know this, but if you don’t give these a few minutes to cool they’ll burn your tongue so badly, you won’t be able to taste anything for a week.”

“Oh dear, we can’t have that,” Crowley teased. “I need my tongue in tip-top condition, I do.”

“Oh, is that so?” Aziraphale asked with an impish smile. “And what, pray tell, do you need your clever tongue for?”

“Come here and I’ll show you,” Crowey said, reaching out an arm to pull Aziraphale in close to him.

By the time Aziraphale had been kissed to Crowley’s satisfaction, the brownies were cool enough that they could just eat them with their fingers, straight from the pan. They decamped to the couch and devoured their desert; although Crowley did rather more devouring with his eyes. It was pornographic, really, the sight of the angel with his cheeks flushed and hair ruffled from a thorough snogging, licking crumbs from his fingers and moaning in pleasure. 

Crowley’s self-control wasn’t stellar at the best of times, much less when the sum of all his dirtiest and most delicious fantasies was sitting right in front of him. So he leaned over to taste the chocolate straight from Aziraphale’s lips.

“So delicious,” he mumbled in-between kisses.

Aziraphale giggled. “Me or the brownies?” he asked teasingly.

“You,” Crowley replied, breathless. “Only you. Only ever you.”

Crowley swung his long legs around in an anatomy-defying arc until he was settled on Aziraphale’s lap and could hold his head still with both hands, kissing him deeply, hungrily, and, okay, probably a little messily. He didn’t care. It was so good, so sweet and hot and…

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley panted. “You’re amazing. So bloody gorgeous. Can I…?” he tugged at the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt.

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably under him. “Ah. Em. About that…”

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, not exactly,” Aziraphale said, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just… it’s a bit fast for me, I’m afraid.”

Crowley slid off to sit next to him again. “Hey, it’s okay, angel,” he said. “No rush, yeah? Nothing you don’t want.”

“Oh, it’s not a matter of not  _ wanting _ , my dear,” Aziraphale said quickly, as if he was trying to reassure Crowley. “Believe me, that’s not the problem. It’s just… sex, and everything that goes with it… well, it’s a big thing for me.”

“Oh.” Crowley thought for a moment. “Have you ever…?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said. “When I first accepted my own sexuality, there was a lot of it. Just to make sure, you know? Or that’s what I told myself.” Aziraphale chuckled self-deprecatingly. “But it didn’t really work for me, you know? Sex without love, without that long-term commitment… it’s fun in the moment, but afterwards… it left me feeling rather empty.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Crowley said, remembering all the times he’d sneaked out of a stranger’s home when, really, he longed to wake up next to someone he loved, and who loved him back.

“The point is, I don’t do casual sex,” Aziraphale summed up. “In fact, I don’t do  _ any  _ sex, at all, until I’m very sure of it.” he looked at Crowley apprehensively. “Is… is that a problem for you?”

Crowley’s heart broke a little, that Aziraphale would think he would push him away just because he wasn’t ready to jump into bed.

“Oh, Angel,” he said, tenderly cupping Aziraphale’s cheek. “Just so you know, for me, there’s nothing casual about this. I’m in it for the long haul. And no, I don’t mind that you’re not ready. You, my angel, are a treasure worth waiting for. However long it takes. Even if… even if you need  _ six thousand years _ , you’d turn around, and there I’d be, patiently waiting. For as long as I need to.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, smiling softly at him. “You really are a treasure.” Suddenly, he pulled Crowley into his arms, hugging him close. “I adore you so very much.”

“And I you, angel,” Crowley said. “So very much.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just pure self-indulgent comfort fic at the moment, OK?

_6 months on…_

Aziraphale smiled as he walked into his office, like he did every morning. He couldn’t help it, with the little reminders of Crowley that caught his eye at every turn: the still-perpetually-filled glass of flowers (currently, Crowley was fixated on yellow, so there were daffodils and buttercups and even a dandelion - he carefully tucked today’s Black Eyed Susan in amongst them), the winged mug (one of a set that Crowley bought him for Christmas) still half-filled with forgotten tea from yesterday, the small but growing collection of succulents on his windowsill, each planted in a porcelain teacup. Aziraphale had found the first of those on the white elephant table at a fundraiser for the local primary school, a single cup and saucer decorated with delicate pink and peach roses. He had lamented the fact that there wasn’t a whole set to Crowley, who pointed out that being one of a kind was perhaps what made it special, and promptly bought it as if to prove his point. The next Monday, he’d showed up at Aziraphale’s office with the teacup, now holding a beautiful miniature aloe plant with glossy, dark green leaves and white spines. Aziraphale nicknamed it Beez - after all, it was small, dark, prickly, and, according to Crowley, virtually impossible to kill.

Since then, Crowley had brought over a new plant every time he “happened to find” a pretty teacup at a thrift store or flea market. Aziraphale was now the proud owner of five plant babies: there was the aloe-known-as-Beez, a tiny striped snake plant, a string-of-pearls (quirkily planted in an old teapot, with one string trailing from the spout), a jade plant that was threatening to outgrow its container, and his favourite, a _Sempervivum_ whose pointed green leaves were tipped with the most exquisite shade of purple-pink. He liked its name - _ever-living_ \- almost as much as its pretty colours. 

He watered his plants carefully, admiring their new growth. Then he poured himself a glass of water, and when it didn’t quite relieve the burning thirst, downed another. His throat felt like he’d had half a bottle of brandy last night, even though he’d only indulged in a couple of glasses of wine. Middle-age must be catching up on him.

Crowley had been right about one thing, at least: these plants were impossible to kill, even though Aziraphale had the brownest thumbs known to human history. He could probably kill the actual Tree of Life through sheer enthusiastic incompetence. And yet, his little windowsill-garden of succulents was thriving. Of course, the fact that Crowley invited himself over regularly to come check on them probably helped.

And speak of the devil - no, not the devil, except maybe in the context of being temptation incarnate - there he was, sauntering into the office and sliding his sunglasses up into his hair.

“Hiya, Angel!” Crowley greeted Aziraphale with a grin.

“Hello, Dearest,” Aziraphale greeted him, stepping over for a slow, indulgent kiss. “Are you missing me already?” 

It had been less than twelve hours since they last said goodbye.

“Of course,” Crowley said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Started missing you the moment you closed the door last night. And I won’t even get to see you for lunch today. I’m suffering from acute angel-deprivation.”

“Oh, you poor sweet thing,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s cheek. “What a terrible ordeal that must be for you. Perhaps you’d better stay over at mine tonight?”

“Um, what?” Crowley said, looking a bit flabbergasted. 

Aziraphale couldn’t really blame him. For all that they’d been dating half a year, they hadn’t actually spent a night together. They would go out, hang out, make out (most fervently and with great enthusiasm), but at the end of the night one of them would always get a cab, or an Uber, or (in Crowley’s case, and when the wine hadn’t flowed too freely) drive home. After Aziraphale’s initial demurral, that was the unspoken agreement. Crowley kept his distance like a perfect gentleman, and somehow did it while still making Aziraphale feel like the most loved and desired man in the world.

But damn it, he’d had enough of faffing around. He was sure of Crowley - more sure than he’d ever been of anything, up to and including his own name, and he wanted the man in his life, in every single bit of it - including his bed. 

“I’m sure you heard me, darling,” Aziraphale purred. 

“I’m fucking dreaming,” Crowley said, his eyes looking a little glazed. “Don’t wake me up, please?”

Aziraphale giggled again. “Silly thing,” he said, giving Crowley a last peck on the cheek before shooing him out of the office. He had class in - oh damn, he was running late! “I’ll see you after work.”

\---

“He invited me to stay over tonight, Beez!” Crowley was smoking frantically. His morning had been a dead loss - in his distraction, he had given half a first-year Introduction to Botany lecture to his final year Phytopathology class before their laughter got through to him, and if it weren’t for the timeous intervention of a postdoc assistant he might have ended up watering their lab plants from the (piping hot) coffee pot.

“Yeah? So?” Beez said, trying to grab their lighter back from Crowley. 

“So. You know. We haven’t… um…”

“Fucking hell, Crowley, what are you, thirteen?” Beez sounded exasperated. “Sex is not a swear word, you know.”

“Yeah, but. Aziraphale is…” Crowley gestured aimlessly. “Aziraphale, you know?”

“Yes? And?” 

“ _And_ ,” Crowley said emphatically: “I have no idea what to make of this... this... invitation. What does he want? What does this _mean_? Is he ready to take the next step, or is this just, like, a friendly sleepover with optional snogging?”

“Bloody sodding arseholes, I can’t believe I have to explain this to you,” Beez said, rolling their eyes. They gripped Crowley firmly by the… well, arms (only a man with a death wish would point out that they couldn't comfortably grab him by the shoulders). “You. Ask. Him.” Beez explained, in their best talking-to-idiots voice, shaking him a bit in time with each word. “You moron.” They added after a moment's consideration. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah. All right. You’re right. Of course you are.”

“You fucking know it,” Beez said, just a little smugly. 

-

Azirapahle, for his part, was not having the best day either. The annoying scratch in his throat had flared into a raging fire by the end of his three hours of morning lectures (three hours! In a row! Gabriel was a bloody sadist, he was. Or whoever did the timetables. He’d have to find out, and have a word with them. Once his voice recovered). 

The staff meeting that followed did _not_ help, and Aziraphale was counting the minutes until he could flee. His head was pounding, he couldn’t focus on a word of whatever Sandalphon was blathering on about, and his constant sipping at his water bottle meant that his bladder was making some very insistent demands. And still his bloody throat was burning. He really, _really_ just wanted to escape to his office for a soothing cup of tea, and perhaps an aspirin. Oh, that’s right, he didn’t have any. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on his hands, praying that the torture would end soon.

“Hey, Aziraphale?” He cracked open his eyes - ow, bloody hell, why were these lights so bright? - to find Gabriel frowning at him. “You okay?”

“Just a headache,” Aziraphale answered, trying to smile. He had a feeling it wasn’t going over very well.

“Did you take something for it?” Gabriel whispered. The whispering was necessary because Sandalphon was still in the middle of his mind-numbing monologue.

“No, I don’t have anything,” Aziraphale admitted. _Stop talking, you’re making it worse!_

Gabriel just frowned again, but when they were done, he grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and pulled him to his office. Aziraphale didn’t have the spirit to fight in that moment, so he just followed meekly.

Gabriel rummaged around in a drawer, producing a box of pills. He took out one of the blister sheets and handed it over to Aziraphale. “Here,” he said. “Take two of these. I got them when I had knee surgery last year, they work like magic.”

Aziraphale was shocked at this unusual display of compassion on Gabriel’s part. When did that happen? Oh well, he mentally shrugged; gift horse and all that.

“Thank you, Gabriel. Really,” he said, managing a genuine (if rather weak) smile this time.

After one extended bathroom visit and two tablets washed down with gloriously cold water from the cooler, Aziraphale found himself back in his office. He didn’t have any more formal commitments this afternoon, just some grading to catch up on.

Uuuuugh, he _hated_ grading. 

He would just… yes, just rest his head on his arms for a moment. Close his eyes against the light that was still stabbing like knives, and daydream about the plans he had for tonight. Just for a…

“Angel?” 

Huh? What was Crowley doing in his office in the middle of the afternoon?

“Wht’re you doin’ ‘ere?” he slurred, tongue not co-operating for some reason.

“It’s five pm, Angel,” Crowley said with an indulgent smile. “Seems you decided to take a nap.”

Five pm! But it had barely been three when he… oh.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. “Those painkillers must have knocked me out a bit.”

“Painkillers?” Crowley looked concerned. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, no,” Aziraphale hastened to reassure him. “I just had a headache earlier, and Gabriel gave me some pills. They must have been stronger than my usual aspirin. Can you pass me that water bottle, please?” For some reason, his throat still felt like the Sahara desert. Half a bottle of water didn’t do much to help.

“Well, then,” he said, gathering up his things and stepping around his desk. “Shall we go?”

Aziraphale was still groggy, as if his mind and body were both moving in slow motion, but he hoped it was just the lingering effects of the medicine. He had plans for tonight, dammit!

“In a minute,” Crowley said with a sly smile. “I want a kiss first.”

Now that was one offer Aziraphale would never refuse. He stepped into the welcoming circle of Crowley’s arms and tilted his face up expectantly.

But Crowley jerked back almost as soon as they touched. “Bloody hell, Angel!” he exclaimed. “You’re on fire! And I don’t mean that in the sexy way.”

“Huh?” Aziraphale didn’t feel particularly hot - if anything, now that he thought about it, he was feeling quite chilly.

“Angel,” Crowley said kindly. “Are you sure you’re okay? Here,” he gently took Aziraphale’s face in his hands, running careful fingers down his throat, pressing ever so gently - ouch, that hurt! He finished up with a soft kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead.

“You’re running a fever and your lymph nodes are the size of golf balls,” he declared. “You, my angel, are sick.”

“Am not!” Aziraphale huffed indignantly, then coughed, then swore at the agony, instinctively bringing a hand up to his throat.

Crowley gave him a sceptical look.

“Okay, maybe I have a bit of a sore throat. And a headache. But I’m fine!” he insisted. “We don’t have to change our plans! I made dinner reservations and everything!” Aziraphale was almost whining at this point.

“Okay, counteroffer,” Crowley said. “How about we go to your place, you get into your comfiest jammies, I cook us dinner, and we snuggle on the couch with a movie?”

Aziraphale had to admit that that sounded good, so he agreed.

“Great,” Crowley smiled. “We’ll just have to stop at my flat to pick up a few things.”

\---

Aziraphale was, indeed, cuddled on the couch in his comfiest pyjamas - and a warm fleecy blanket to boot - when Crowley appeared from the kitchen, bearing a tray with two steaming bowls.

“Chicken soup, angel,” he said in reply to Aziraphale’s curious glance. “Jewish penicillin. Known to cure every ailment under the sun.”

Aziraphale chuckled, but once the soup was sitting warmly in his belly, he was more inclined to agree. He certainly felt better. Although that could have been because of the man sitting next to him, gently stroking his hair.

“How’re you feeling, love?” Crowley asked gently. 

“Hmm. Sore. Sleepy,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Crowley asked. “I mean, it’s ridiculously early, but you could probably use a few extra hours.”

Aziraphale hated how good that sounded right now. But if he went to sleep…

“Will you stay?” he asked timidly.

“Course, Angel,” Crowley replied easily. “Gotta nurse you back to health, don’t I?”

“You’re the angel,” Aziraphale said, snuggling his face into Crowley’s neck.

“Lies!” Crowley exclaimed in mock horror. His whole _I’m-a-horrible-scary-demon_ -act had become something of an inside joke between them; Aziraphale knew exactly how far from the truth it was. “Go on, off to bed with you. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Crowley reappeared, bearing a steaming mug and a couple of painkillers.

“Ginger tea with lots of honey and lemon,” he explained as he handed over the mug. “Best remedy for a sore throat. Drink it as hot as you can stand it, k?"

Aziraphale sipped the spicy liquid carefully. It burned as it went down, but left a soothing numbness in its wake.

“Thank you, darling,” he managed. This earned him a fond smile.

“Drink up and go to sleep, angel,” Crowley said, settling in on the bed next to him. “I’ll be right here.”

“You know,” Aziraphale said as he burrowed down into the pillows, already half loopy with sleep and codeine. “I had plans for tonight. Whole sexy seduction and everything. Was gonna make you mine. Even wore my good undies.” Half-drugged as he was, he missed the shocked look on Crowley’s face. “I’m such a sodding loser, getting all sick at stupid times. I’m sorry, love.”

Crowley’s face melted into fondness - and again, Aziraphale missed it. But he did feel the soft kiss on his temple, the gentle hand brushing his hair from his forehead. 

“You’re perfect, angel,” Crowley said softly. “Absolutely perfect.”

It was the last thing Aziraphale knew before sleep dragged him under.

\---

True to his word, Crowley stayed.

Well, of-fucking-course he did. It wasn’t every day he got the chance to sleep next to an angel. Even if it was just sleeping. Sleeping was one of his favourite activities, after all. And Aziraphale was so warm and soft, and his pillows smelled the same way he always did at the end of the day, a curious mix of his cologne and a sweaty sort of skin-smell. Crowley could lose himself in it, sleep for a hundred years right there in Aziraphale’s bed.

He woke the next morning, took one look at Aziraphale, and promptly phoned Gabriel.

“Hey, Gabe. Crowley here. Listen, I’m phoning about Aziraphale.”

“Is he all right?” That was the first clue that something had changed. Gabriel, giving a damn about anyone? Surely the apocalypse was nigh.

“He’s pretty sick,” Crowley explained. “He won’t be in today, maybe not for a couple of days. Okay?” Crowley asked, daring Gabriel to argue.

“No, no, of course,” Gabriel said immediately. “He was looking pretty awful yesterday, to tell you the truth. Tell him he’s not to come back until Monday at the earliest okay? I’ll get someone to take his classes.” 

Crowley was almost speechless. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Thanks,” he added as an afterthought. 

“Maybe I’ll get Sandalphon to fill in,” Gabriel went on, in a tone of voice that could only be described as devious. ”I mean, the poor students won’t learn a thing from the daft bugger, but maybe it will deflate his enormous ego a bit, no?”

Crowley couldn’t help it, he barked out a laugh. “Cheers, Gabe,” he said. “You’re a pal.”

_The fuck have you been doing to Gabe to turn him into a human?_ He texted Beez, then phoned his own head of department to explain that he had a family emergency; and then he phoned one of his on-campus grad students to handle his lectures (luckily only one first-year class) and office hours for the day. 

_You don’t want to know what I’ve been doing to G,_ was Beez’s reply, and Crowley decided that no, he really, really didn’t.

_Keep up the good work, champ,_ he replied, knowing the condescension would make Beez fume, then put his phone away and went to put on the kettle. He had an angel to take care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all need a Crowley.
> 
> Also, the smut will come. Promise. But you know how life is, this sort of shit always happens. Or is that just me? 😝


End file.
